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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233023">Magician's Heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice'>Mice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>(Un)binding [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, magical au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:06:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed in his youth, Mycroft had been searching a lifetime for a way to break his curse and end his loneliness. He hoped that Greg Lestrade held the key.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>(Un)binding [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Mystrade Is Magic</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Magician's Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the raven's call that drew Mycroft from his studies that day. The croaking was loud outside his window, and insistent. He rose from his desk and looked out into the rowan tree nearby, where the huge, black bird perched.</p>
<p>He'd been warned against paying too much attention to ravens, of course. Every child was, even children as brilliant as Mycroft. The warnings didn't stay his curiosity, however, when the raven looked directly at him and called again. He'd heard that you could get wisdom from ravens, despite the danger, and wisdom was something that Mycroft craved.</p>
<p>He closed his notebook and put his pen away. The raven still sat in the tree, looking at him, its bead-black eyes following his movements. Cautious, Mycroft went outside, walking around the house until he came to the tree. He looked up into it. The raven was still there, watching him.</p>
<p>"What do you want?" Mycroft asked.</p>
<p>The raven croaked. Mycroft thought it sounded like the bird had said, "Come."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>The raven tilted its head and laughed at him. It dropped from the tree and landed on Mycroft's shoulder, tugging at his hair and plucking one from his head. Mycroft yelped in pain as the bird spread its wing and took flight, one auburn hair in its beak. </p>
<p>"Stop!" Mycroft shouted, and he dashed after the raven. He followed as it flew quickly toward the wood behind the house and did his best to keep it in sight as it twisted through the trees and thickets. He was filthy, exhausted, and out of breath as it got further away from him. He kept at it, though, determined. </p>
<p>The kinds of magic someone could do with a hair, or with nail clippings were not to be imagined. Curses could be wrought. Love spells. Control of the mind or stealing of the soul. He'd read the tales, like everyone else. He'd had the rules drilled into his head by his Uncle Rudy, a magician of great skill.</p>
<p>Breathless, panting, he finally saw the raven perch on a hawthorn tree in the distance. A woman's voice spoke, but Mycroft wasn't near enough to hear the words. </p>
<p>Catching his breath for a moment so that he'd not be rasping noisily, he crept forward, not letting the raven see him. He had to find out why the bird had stolen his hair. Who was the woman? What did either of them want?  </p>
<p>"Hair of a virgin," the woman said. She was tall and thin, of middle age, with a long, narrow face and curly brown hair. She reached out to the raven, who fluttered down to perch on her arm. She plucked Mycroft's hair from the raven's beak. Before her, in a tiny clearing among the hawthorn trees, was a fire. Over it hung a small cauldron of iron, suspended from a tripod of rough-hewn branches. "Let the life of the child feed my life," she intoned, holding Mycroft's hair over the cauldron. The raven shuffled itself up to her shoulder and watched intently.</p>
<p>"Let the hair of the child add its life to my brew. Keep my youth, steal my age."</p>
<p>She dropped Mycroft's hair into the cauldron and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. "No!" he shouted. "You may not have it! That's <i>my</i> life!" The woman looked up, startled.</p>
<p>Mycroft's hand grasped the nearest plant. He needed to ruin the brew somehow, stop her from stealing his life away. He tore at the greenery -- bindweed, with its twining, binding stems and its white trumpet flowers -- and staggered to the cauldron, dropping it in. "No! I will not give you my life!"</p>
<p>The brew hissed as the bindweed touched the liquid, and the woman shouted in pain. The raven's wings battered at him as it launched itself into the air. "I'll die!" she screamed. "You horrible brat! Heartless! Loveless! Loveless you'll be til the day you die unless a daemon asks for your heart! My curse upon you, with my dying breath! Not a word can you reveal to any creature of this earth!" </p>
<p>The liquid boiled and spat, and the iron cauldron shattered with her scream. The woman shuddered and trembled, her body aging before Mycroft's eyes, and he screamed as well, terrified. The raven sat above them both on a branch, watching. Finally, withered, she dropped to the earth, a shriveled, twisted thing, and the raven descended and plucked out her eyes.</p>
<p>Horrified and in pain, Mycroft turned and fled. </p>
<p>When he got home, he tried to tell his parents what had happened, but no words would come. He could speak of the raven, but of nothing else. Still in pain, his parents put him to bed and sent for Rudy, hoping he would know what to do.</p>
<p>The next day, his uncle arrived. "What happened to you, boy?"</p>
<p>"I followed a raven," he said, ashamed.</p>
<p>"You know better than that. What could have possessed you?"</p>
<p>Mycroft looked up at him over the breakfast table. "I wanted wisdom," he said, hesitant. "It was looking right at me. I thought it wanted to speak to me."</p>
<p>Uncle Rudy shook his head. "You're a fool. No raven will just give you such a thing. There is always <i>a price</i>. Where did it take you?"</p>
<p>"I can show you, when we're done," he said. He had been a fool. He might be fourteen, and more intelligent than most adults, but he had no experience. He had no training. He had no bloody sense, obviously. He'd thought that he wouldn't be sent up to Cambridge until next year, but now he might never go. He'd surely be punished for whatever was left out there among the hawthorns.</p>
<p>"You can't just tell me?" Rudy asked. Mycroft shook his head, unable to form words. Not for any creature of this earth. Rudy sighed. "How'd you get yourself cursed, boy?"</p>
<p>He sighed and shook his head again. "The words won't come."</p>
<p>"When we get back, we'll try having you write it down. Sometimes it's different from speaking."</p>
<p>"I don't think so, Uncle Rudy." Not a word. She hadn't said 'not a word can you speak' but 'not a word can you reveal' -- it seemed quite clear and very broad.</p>
<p>They all went out and followed Mycroft. "The raven was there," he said, pointing up into the rowan tree. "It flew this way." Mycroft started off across the field toward the trees. As they reached the edge of the wood, Mycroft could see some of the signs of his passing from yesterday; the occasional footprint, leaves missing from twigs, and the like.</p>
<p>When they came to the tiny clearing among the hawthorns, the only thing Mycroft could do was point. It was all still there, absent the raven; the shattered cauldron, the shriveled, eyeless corpse, the inert remains of the woman's potion.</p>
<p>Mycroft's parents both gasped, horrified. Mummy clutched Mycroft by one shoulder and pulled him back away from the withered body. "Dear gods," Rudy said. He took the gold ring from his finger and stood at the edge of the clearing, peering at the scene with one eye through the circle of gold. As he examined the corpse and the effluvium from the cauldron, he gasped and turned his gaze upon Mycroft.</p>
<p>"What did you do?" he asked. "How did you break the spell she was winding?"</p>
<p>Mycroft leaned down into the hedge where he'd entered the space. "Bindweed," he said, pointing to the plants. "I tore it out by the roots and told her she couldn't…" he couldn't finish the sentence. "I threw the bindweed into the cauldron."</p>
<p>Rudy lowered the ring and stared at him. "By the Aegis," he whispered. He took a thick branch from a nearby hazel shrub and used it to move the corpse.</p>
<p>"The raven ate her eyes," Mycroft murmured.</p>
<p>Rudy looked up at him. "I told you there's always a price," he said, grim. Turning his attention back to the corpse, he examined it more closely with his ring. Eventually, nodding, he carefully collected some of the remains of the potion into a little glass vial. With a tiny silver scalpel, he took a sample of the corpse's flesh and put it into another vial. "I'll need to examine these carefully when I get home to see if I can learn more."</p>
<p>"Home," Father said. "To London?"</p>
<p>Rudy nodded. "My cottage here hasn't the proper equipment for a thorough analysis. I don't come here expecting to do forensic magics."</p>
<p>"Are you done, Rudy?" Mummy asked.</p>
<p>Rudy stood and looked about the clearing one more time, then nodded, sighing. "Yes. This is all I can do here." He placed the vials carefully in a leather bag hanging from his belt. "Come, child." His voice was gentler now, and he rested a hand on Mycroft's arm. "This wasn't as simple as I'd originally thought. You're very lucky to be alive."</p>
<p>Turning to Mycroft's father, he said, "Have the local exorcist come and burn this place and everything within the hawthorns." Mycroft's parents murmured uneasily between themselves and agreed to do so, as soon as they arrived back at the house and could make the call. "I'm taking Mycroft to my cottage. I have to speak with him, and it will be much easier there."</p>
<p>Mycroft had only been to Uncle Rudy's cottage a few times in his life. Rudy was a solitary, secretive man, and disliked the disruption of even a quiet child like Mycroft within its confines. They walked to the west, while Mycroft's parents headed back to the south, toward the house. Rudy said nothing as they walked, and Mycroft echoed his silence.</p>
<p>When they arrived at Uncle Rudy's cottage, a small stone building surrounded by a fence, overgrown with brambles and roses, Mycroft was led inside and told to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. He watched as his uncle placed the two vials he'd collected into a small lead coffer and closed it, locking it with a word and a gesture. Finally, with a sigh, Rudy sat in the other chair and looked into Mycroft's eyes.</p>
<p>"Given what I saw in the copse," Rudy said, "I can no longer consider your following the raven as the thoughtless action of a foolish child. You were targeted, and charmed out of the house, and your life was at risk. You would have died there, had not you thought to use the bindweed to bind her power and break her spell."</p>
<p>"It was the first thing at hand," Mycroft said. </p>
<p>"No. The closest things to hand were hawthorn, foxglove, and witch-alder. Your hand, knowing or not, fell on the proper plant for what you needed. Something in you sought out the one thing there that could save you. You've always shown signs of the gift, boy. I'd been planning to wait a few years and let you take your degrees at Cambridge, but this has shown that the time has come for you to prentice. You'll be coming to London with me when I return."</p>
<p>Stunned, Mycroft gaped at his uncle. "To London?"</p>
<p>"The studies of a magician are long and arduous, and you're a bit young by most standards to begin them, but your power is undeniable now. As you learn, we can discover how to break it safely, if such a thing is possible. I assume you know the intent of the curse?"</p>
<p>Cautious, Mycroft nodded. A nod wasn't a word, but he didn't think these simple yes and no, nod and shake questions would get his uncle to the heart of the matter at all. "When will we go?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Tomorrow, after the remains of that rite are destroyed. We should be there to witness it. Perhaps something of the magic will reveal itself in the banishment and exorcism of the place." Rudy rose and paced to one of his bookshelves. "For now, we will begin your studies with Empedocles and his fragments on the classical four elements, and the cause of their unions and separations in the opposing forces of love and strife. You have Ancient Greek, don't you boy?"</p>
<p>"Of course, Uncle."</p>
<p>"Hmm, very good. I'll give you the fragments in the original, and the analysis texts in English and Latin." He rummaged about in his bookshelf and brought Mycroft two slim volumes, then brought him a notebook and a pen. "Here. Make yourself comfortable at the small desk there, by the cellar door."</p>
<p>Mycroft took the books, the notebook, and the pen and seated himself at the desk. Opening the volume of fragments, he began to read.</p>
<p>*** </p>
<p>London was very different from life at Musgrave. Mycroft had visited the city twice before, but he'd never been to Uncle Rudy's flat in Kensington. There was a little shop at the front of it, where Rudy consulted his clients. Behind the shop were a narrow hallway, a stairway with a little room for the toilet underneath, and a kitchen with a tiny dining area. Upstairs were two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a workshop.</p>
<p>Mycroft lived in the little bedroom on the left, opposite his uncle's workshop. </p>
<p>He loved life in the city. There were museums and lectures and bookshops, and sometimes Rudy allowed Mycroft to attend consultations with his clients if the work involved the topics that Mycroft was currently studying. He learned the arts of astrology and a dozen forms of divination. He mastered psychometry, a method of reading people or objects by the spiritual or energetic vibrations emanating from them or left upon them.</p>
<p>Numerology, palmistry, and deduction based upon the observation of a person, their clothing, and the surroundings were all a part of his studies. Eventually, he was taught the alchemy of herbs, then of stones, and of metals. Each passing year brought new knowledge and wisdom, and new methods of gathering information. When Mycroft began to learn evocations and invocations, he realized he'd found a way to get around the restriction on his curse. Not a word could he reveal to a creature of this earth.</p>
<p>The spirits of the dead could be conjured, but they were of the earth. The same was true of land and animal spirits. All were bound to the sphere of earth. Gods could be spoken to, but dealing with them was the work of priests, not of magicians. One didn't command deities, one petitioned them, and they generally dealt only with those who worshipped them. Mycroft was no atheist -- he knew of their existence and had encountered a few deific beings -- but he had no interest in worship. What he wanted was power, and knowledge, and the ability to break the curse that left him in an agony of loneliness.</p>
<p>There were other types of spirits with whom he might speak, however, and who might be able to reveal answers to him. Daemons, goetic spirits, and the angels of the Enochean Aethers, all of them were the inhabitants of other realms. Planetary spirits were not of the earth. The spirits of the qliphotic spheres were largely outside of the earthly realms.</p>
<p>Over the course of the years, Mycroft made their summoning and converse his particular specialty, and Uncle Rudy aided him in becoming one of the most skilled summoners of the age. As Mycroft matured, his uncle aged, and with the years he handed over more and more of his work and his clients to Mycroft.</p>
<p>The day when Mycroft first went to Buckingham Palace with his uncle to serve the royal family was one of the proudest of his life. His conjuration technique was flawless, and the work he did under his uncle's supervision was impeccable. Even then, acknowledged as the likely successor to his uncle's position, Mycroft continued to study and to refine his practices. </p>
<p>Mycroft summoned and conversed with every daemon that was listed as a giver of knowledge and asked about the particulars of his curse. At first he thought he'd been cursed to have a daemon fall in love with him, but that seemed more and more unlikely with each summoning. Outside of his work, he cultivated a large circle of acquaintances in places of power. No stranger to sex, Mycroft was unable to find any true companionship. He had a broad network of contacts should he require knowledge or favors, but friends and love evaded him, and he ached for the company of someone to care for, who would care for him.</p>
<p>As Mycroft grew in his magical power, he dared more challenging operations. Lacking love, he found solace in knowledge. He collected obscure magical tomes, and penned volumes of his own. For his more esoteric work and more difficult summonings, he came to need items that were not easily gained even with a large amount of money. His research unearthed a reference to the daemon Sherlock, a minor Lieutenant of the infernal realms, whose specialty was uncovering the most deeply hidden secrets, and procuring physical objects.</p>
<p>Sherlock was a difficult daemon, and a resentful one. Few magicians would dare to summon him, for he was known to reveal the carefully guarded flaws and fears of his summoners, often at inopportune moments. Mycroft was clever enough to find ways around Sherlock's words and wiles, and to bind him to faithful service. He summoned him rarely, and only for the most difficult and important of tasks.</p>
<p>Gusion, a Duke of Hell in the form of a baboon, who showed the meanings of all questions asked of him, gave Mycroft the answer regarding the key to breaking his curse. "A cursed man will break your curse," the daemon said, "when his own curse you break."</p>
<p>A client? Mycroft became an expert at the breaking of all types of curses. He could ferret out the causes and particularities of the most convoluted spells. He learned the names and energetic signatures of nearly every powerful magician, cunning man, and hedge witch in Britain.</p>
<p>The Earl and Duke Barbatos, who taught the languages of animals and revealed hidden treasures, whispered to Mycroft of the hidden form of the cursed man who was the key to his dilemma. "Golden is he, and shining. Loveless, he shall be hidden under a halo of silver."</p>
<p>Loveless. The immortality-seeking hedge witch had spat that word at him twice as she cursed him. Was it a name, or a state? Was the man who could free him as cursed in love as Mycroft himself?</p>
<p>"I shall show you the hidden form you seek," the Great Duke Dantalion said, shimmering into the form of a heart bound by cords and kept in a bottle. "Touch will reveal the truth."</p>
<p>Uncle Rudy showed him the mysteries of using an enchanted ring for revealing hidden forms and energies, and seeing auras and the minor spirits and energy forms that might be attached to a person or animal. Such rings were engraved on the inside with invocations or symbols to assist the magician with clear sight and understanding. Some also carried marks or runes of protection to guard the bearer from harm. Rudy's was made of gold and had been in their family since the early 15th century. "You must only look through with one eye," Rudy told him. "There are things that are not safe to see with both. Some spirits, if seen, will try to blind the eye you used if they realize they've been observed. Others will kill you outright if they can."</p>
<p>"I shall exercise all due caution," Mycroft promised. And so he became an expert in protective magics, in shields and warding, in the shimmering auric energies that dissolved evil intent.</p>
<p>When Uncle Rudy died, he left to Mycroft his shop with all his things, his practice, and his ring. After a suitable period of mourning, Mycroft was summoned to the palace and appointed Rudy's successor as Magician to Her Majesty, with all the rights and responsibilities pertaining thereto. </p>
<p>"We offer you our condolences, Mr Holmes, and hope that your service to us shall be as faithful and distinguished as that of your late, lamented uncle." </p>
<p>Mycroft bowed and accepted the symbol of his new office. "Thank you for your condolences, Your Majesty. I shall serve the Crown with all my skill and my honour." It was an honour that was infrequently exercised, of course. The royal family rarely needed magical aid, but when it was necessary, the situations tended to be extremely sensitive and called for great discretion. Mycroft, like his uncle before him, lived on family money and commissions from private clients, when he felt like accepting them.</p>
<p>In all his years in London, Mycroft searched and waited, wondering when his loneliness would end. The entities he summoned could only provide him with so much information about future events, and about the curse he'd been living with for so long. Daemons spoke in riddles, and Mycroft had meditated, sent his spirit forth into other realms, and done dozens of forms of divination, only to fail again and again to pinpoint the man who might end his pain.</p>
<p>Eventually, Mycroft stopped believing the curse would ever be broken and resigned himself to a quiet, lonely life.</p>
<p>*** </p>
<p>When a potential client walked through Mycroft's door that day, he was busy with the final stage of an alchemical operation for a curative elixir. He had to watch for the precise point when the material went to ash to create the salt of the stones, or weeks of work would be ruined. He'd meant to lock the door so as not to be disturbed, but there was no reason to make the man leave, so long as he was quiet. Mycroft told him to wait.</p>
<p>Thankfully, he did so, silent and patient.</p>
<p>When the operation was finished. Mycroft turned to see who had come in. The man was handsome; of middling height, with broad shoulders, greying hair, and dark brown eyes. He was obviously with the police, and of a relatively high rank. "How may I help you?" Mycroft asked.</p>
<p>The man hesitated, uncertain. He grimaced. "My love life is absolute shite," he said, without preamble.</p>
<p>Oh, good gods. A policeman coming in to talk about his love life? "Really, Inspector? A love potion? You must certainly be aware that such things are entirely illegal."</p>
<p>The man looked offended. "Yeah, no. I've no idea how you know I'm a copper, but I'm not on some kind of a sting operation, and I'm serious here. I have a problem and nothing I've tried for years has done anything about it. At this point I'm convinced there's something wrong with me. I just wanted to know what it might cost me to put it right."</p>
<p>Mycroft's eyebrows rose. For years? "Wrong with you?" He couldn't imagine the man being the source of his own troubles.</p>
<p>"So, how much does walking in the door cost me?"</p>
<p>Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "Tell me about your problem and I'll decide whether you'd be better off spending your money elsewhere. To answer your question, my consultation fee is £5,000, should I decide your problem is interesting enough. That, however, is exceedingly unlikely." He wrinkled his nose. Love problems. He had enough of his own. He disliked taking on those of others. But one that had been ongoing for years? The most likely source was some kind of curse, but those tended to be simple and short-lived for most people.</p>
<p>With a sigh, the policeman rose and shook his head. "Yeah, thanks. Me having years of crap luck with relationships is obviously not worth your valuable time."</p>
<p>Mycroft''s eyes narrowed. He examined the man more closely. There was definitely something about him that caught Mycroft's attention. It needed further investigation. He gestured at the chair. "Sit. Tell me. I'll be the one to decide whether this is a waste of my time or not."</p>
<p>The man sat again, at Mycroft's request, and began to speak. He was very distressed, and his tale was one of rejection and profound loneliness. His head hung and he looked bereft when he spoke. He seemed deeply depressed but was doing his best to hide it. The depression and hopelessness would obviously have intensified over time. Fifteen years, Mycroft thought, feeling a sense of kinship with him. Fifteen years of being alone and loveless.</p>
<p>Loveless. The word echoed in Mycroft's soul. </p>
<p>It couldn't be. Not after all this time.</p>
<p>"So there it is. My boring, not worth a second glance to you problem. I'll just be on my way now, unless you've got somebody you can refer me to who's better suited to my bloody midlife crisis." He picked up his head and started to rise.</p>
<p>"One moment," Mycroft said, his heart thundering in his chest. "This is much more interesting than it seems on the surface." It couldn't be; Mycroft was doomed to spend his life alone. This was coincidence, nothing more.</p>
<p>'A cursed man will break your curse, when his own curse you break,' the daemon Gusion had said. Mycroft didn't dare hope. This had to be a curse, though. Mycroft had broken a myriad of curses in his career. This was just one more.</p>
<p>He had to find out, and pulled his scrying ring from his finger. Closing one eye, Mycroft looked through it to reveal the man's nature, and something of the essence of the curse that afflicted him. </p>
<p>What Mycroft saw when he closed his eye and peered through the ring shocked him. The words of the Earl and Duke Barbatos echoed in his mind: 'Golden is he, and shining. Loveless, he shall be hidden under a halo of silver.' The man's handsome but ordinary tan shone gold through the circle of the ring, his greying hair a silver halo about his head. He was a profoundly good man, and the curse was laid deep within him, and subtle. </p>
<p>Mycroft had him turn about, to view him from all angles as he examined the specifics of the magic. The aura of it was intense, like a rot rooted in the poor man's soul -- mold and toadstools and rotting leaves. There had to be a physical link of some sort for a curse this powerful, and it had been cast with great skill, for it was growing more potent over the years instead of fading. The magical signature of whomever had laid it was not familiar to Mycroft, which meant it was most likely a cunning man, for Mycroft knew all of the most powerful formally trained magicians in England.</p>
<p>He moved closer, looking more deeply into the threads of the magic. "Yes," he murmured. "Very interesting. Hmmm." He raised his head from the ring. "I need to touch you, if I may." Psychometry might reveal something that vision did not. Dantalion had said 'touch will reveal the truth' and Mycroft would soon know for certain what his heart ached to learn.</p>
<p>The man nodded, and Mycroft reached out and ran his fingers slowly along his cheekbone. He could feel the man shiver at his touch. The image came in a flash. 'The hidden form you seek.' Mycroft saw, and he knew beyond doubt. It was true, this was him. He was the key to breaking Mycroft's curse; the image of a heart bound within a bottle, knotted with cords and throbbing with imprisoned power.</p>
<p>Stunned, Mycroft had the man sit. "This is subtle, extremely skilled work, yet I don't recognize the hand that laid it. This," he said, "is both fascinating and potentially extremely dangerous."</p>
<p>"What?" </p>
<p>"It would have been laid not long before your wife began cheating on you, about fifteen years ago. Something happened. You angered someone, most likely someone involved in a crime you dealt with. I need to know who."</p>
<p>"Fifteen years ago?" The man groaned. "Fuck my life. That's… that'll take ages to research. I don't even remember most of the cases I was involved with. I was still a constable at the time."</p>
<p>"Knowing who laid the curse is critical when it's this complex."</p>
<p>The man scrubbed his face with both palms and ran one hand through his hair. "Right. So you'll help me figure this out, then." He reached for his wallet. "Do you take a credit card, or will I need to save up for a couple of months for your fee?"</p>
<p>"Put that away," Mycroft said. He wasn't about to charge the man if there was even the slightest chance that his own curse would be broken at the same time. Yet he couldn't actually tell him the truth. "This is possibly the most interesting thing that's come my way in several years." In a lifetime, truly. "I'm quite looking forward to something that requires actual untangling for a change."</p>
<p>"What, really?"</p>
<p>"Quite." The man put his wallet away and Mycroft held out his hand. "Mycroft Holmes, at your service." </p>
<p>"Greg. Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector, Homicide and Serious Crimes." </p>
<p>They spoke for a while longer, about Greg's curse and the information Mycroft needed to try to identify the person who'd laid it. "I think we can safely narrow it down to cases within three months of the date when your ex began cheating on you." It was difficult to imagine anyone wanting to cheat on someone like Greg. The entire situation was naturally quite painful for the poor man. The curse had to have been what triggered it. </p>
<p>Though the person who had laid the curse was obviously patient, creating one that was so long-lived, they would no doubt have wanted it to begin taking effect quickly. Three months seemed a bit long, in Mycroft's estimation, but it was at the outside of the timeframe that made the most sense. He didn't want to restrict the search too much and therefore miss the most important clues. With the proper information, the appropriate materials, and enough skill and training, any curse could be broken. In over thirty years, the only curse that had stymied Mycroft's skills had been his own.</p>
<p>He sent the man away reluctantly, but there was no good excuse to continue their conversation. Mycroft still had work to do, yet he watched Greg from the door of his shop as he walked away.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>It would take time for Greg to find the necessary information. It would certainly be days, or possibly weeks, given the timeframe of the curse's origin and the likely number of cases the man would have worked on as a constable during a three-month window.</p>
<p>Mycroft spent his time researching and preparing for the operations he would need to perform. Curses as intricate as the one that had been laid upon Greg usually had some kind of material anchor. Even if Greg found the name of the person who had laid it, Mycroft would have to obtain the object link. It most likely still existed. If it did not, breaking the curse would be much more difficult. He hoped it would not be as problematic as breaking his own.</p>
<p>He wasn't certain of the mechanism of the curse, either, only that it had slowly been growing stronger as the years passed. There would have to be some kind of living component. And what had been the motive? Revenge was the most likely possibility, he thought.</p>
<p>Between his many other clients, Mycroft gathered resources and made inquiries. He did his utmost not to hope that this would truly be the man who could help him, but the signs -- the signs were all there. He still didn't know how this fit in with a daemon asking for his heart, but if it were true, the request would happen, and he had to be ready for all contingencies. It was entirely possible that breaking his own curse would kill him. It was a possibility that had occurred to him many times over the course of his life.The woman who had cursed him had died, and the energy released by her death had made the curse that affected him extremely powerful. She had obviously wanted him to suffer; it was just as likely she intended his death at the end of it.</p>
<p>Loveless. Unwanted. Alone. Mycroft had created the best life he could out of his solitude, but it weighed more and more heavily on him as the years passed. He could imagine with great clarity what Greg must be going through. But there was no way for Mycroft to ask him questions that would directly reference his own curse. There wasn't even a way to mention it. He'd tried so many times, but the words would never come. He would be silent, his mouth open, unable to make a sound.</p>
<p>Oh, others knew he bore a curse. It was no secret. Uncle Rudy had made inquiries over the years of different practitioners who specialized in the removal of complicated curses. He'd taken Mycroft to some of them, and nearly every kind of divination had been done, but it seemed only Mycroft himself was capable of actually finding anything useful. Mycroft had been cautious nearly to the point of paranoia when he called upon the daemons to demand information. He never asked any one of them more than a few questions. It was far too dangerous for one entity to have all of the information. Daemons were subtle, and their knowledge came with a very high price.</p>
<p>Three weeks after Greg's initial visit, he called Mycroft to make an appointment, which Mycroft set for that Friday. The week was a busy one, with a consultation at Buckingham Palace regarding an ongoing problem, and Friday would be full as well, but he had time in the afternoon before his final appointment.</p>
<p>Mycroft was tired of loneliness. He was sick of isolation. He'd never been terribly social by nature, but even he needed company. He ached for someone to hold at night, or for someone who might hold him. Brief liaisons for sex were as close as he could get, but he always found it unsatisfying and the pleasure far too fleeting, knowing that they cared nothing for him and that they would leave with the dawn, or before.</p>
<p>When he arrived back at his shop Friday, he spent time making the space spotless and prepared a pot of tea. Greg arrived a few minutes early with three files that he believed were the most likely possibilities, and several bags of evidence associated with them. Mycroft asked if Greg had attempted dating in the intervening weeks, on the chance that he might have made observations about specific things that turned people from him. </p>
<p>Greg shook his head. "No. Not really worth it, to be honest. If I'm cursed, there's no point. If I'm not cursed and I'm just bloody fucking unlucky, well, there's still really no point, is there?"</p>
<p>Mycroft could hear the man's pain and frustration; it mirrored Mycroft's own. He couldn't blame the man. Turning his attention to the files, Mycroft looked them over, rejecting the first two quickly.</p>
<p>The third felt right. "Tell me about this case, Greg." Mycroft pulled photos of the perpetrators out of the file and laid them on the workbench.</p>
<p>"Couple of young blokes, brothers," Greg said. "Dave and Bill Twillson." The name Twillson niggled at the back of Mycroft's mind, but he didn't interrupt. "Bill had a girlfriend who decided she wanted to leave him; they had a long history of domestics. He got angry, beat her up. His brother showed up and instead of stepping in to stop the violence, he thought he'd have some fun, too. They killed the poor girl. Tortured her for several hours, from what forensics said. The case was open and shut. Neither of the boys had any magic to them, but they have a big family, and some of them have got some talent, from what we could tell."</p>
<p>"Hmm, and why would someone target you, specifically?" Mycroft asked, poring over the file. "It looks like you did quite a number of the interviews."</p>
<p>"Yeah," Greg said. "Made one of the arrests, too. Got into it with one of the brothers, who pulled a knife on me." Greg rolled up his sleeve. "Cut me pretty good, but there's only a little scar left now. I cuffed him and did the honours."</p>
<p>Blood. If someone in the family had got their hands on it, it was a primal physical link. Powerful curses were wrought with blood. A chill went through Mycroft and he reached out to take Greg's arm and examine the scar. This -- this was certainly where the curse had originated. That Greg had not only been one of the arresting officers, but that he had left blood at the scene of the arrest, was more than sufficient. Not just motive, but opportunity.</p>
<p>"So the family had access to a physical link to you. This is definitely enough to be certain it was a curse. Now we need to narrow it down to who in the family might have been capable of something like this."</p>
<p>"None of them seemed too well educated, that I can recall," Greg said. "You said that if it's a curse--"</p>
<p>Mycroft tightened his grasp on Greg's arm. "Oh, it's a curse all right. It's a very subtle and insidious curse, in fact. One that not only is not losing power with time, but one which seems to be affecting you more as time goes on. Your continuing questioning as to whether this is, in fact, a curse is evidence of its power."</p>
<p>"Seriously?"</p>
<p>"Very. A high level of education isn't necessary for these things, Greg, one simply needs enough cleverness and creativity. I'd be more likely to expect something like this of someone educated, but it is absolutely not beyond any cunning man with a long family tradition and an imagination. Twillson is a name I've come across in my historical research from time to time over the years."</p>
<p>"You think I'm in some kind of serious trouble, then."</p>
<p>"Yes." He let go of Greg's arm. "I'm quite certain the perpetrator is male. A hedge witch would more likely have gone for something simple and humiliating -- causing you an inability to have an erection, for instance. Direct and to the point. Also easily identifiable as a curse and very easily removed. No, this was not intended to humiliate you in that base and blatant way. It was intended to undermine you, slowly."</p>
<p>"To what end? What would be the point of cursing some barely-responsible constable at a crime scene?"</p>
<p>"Revenge is a simple but powerful motivator. You made one of the arrests, and it was your blood that was left at the scene. Considering that the two young men were eventually convicted of premeditated murder, the consequences for them and, presumably, for the family, were severe."</p>
<p>"So how do we find out who actually did it?" Greg was uncertain now, and more than a little unsettled.</p>
<p>Mycroft scowled, angry at the injustice done and the exceedingly dangerous potential for further harm to the man. "Leave that to me."</p>
<p>Divination was necessary, now that Greg was in his presence once more, and Mycroft took out his old, worn deck of tarot cards. Silk-wrapped, they'd been one of the very first magical tools he'd ever been given by his uncle. They were simple enough that anyone who even suspected they had a hint of magical ability would have experimented with them at least once, and profound enough that they could offer deep insights if handled properly. </p>
<p>Shuffled and laid out, they revealed the reality of the danger that Greg was in. The curse wasn't simply meant to cause the man trouble, it was a slow, subtle assassination. "You mean, what, seriously? This curse is an attempted murder?" Greg asked.</p>
<p>Mycroft nodded, his mind already categorizing and cataloguing supplies and rites. "I shall need to look into this quite thoroughly in order to pinpoint the individual who laid the curse. I would not advise approaching them in your official capacity until we are certain what we're dealing with. I suspect a grandfather or an uncle of one of the young men in question, but I will need to have their name and some physical link in order to properly break the curse, and for you to bring charges against them for magical mayhem. In any case, I would strongly advise you to keep yourself in company as much as you're able. Revealing the curse may have added strength to it, as the moon's strength waxes with its light. You may well find yourself actively struggling with suicidal ideation."</p>
<p>"How long do you figure this is going to take?" Greg asked, worry written plainly on his face.</p>
<p>"A day or two," Mycroft told him. "I expect I'll have the necessary materials to break the curse by Sunday evening." He'd have to do a summoning operation tonight. Given his need for both information and material objects, the daemon Sherlock would doubtless be his most fruitful avenue to pursue. </p>
<p>Hesitant, Greg said, "Look, as you probably realized, I live alone. If this thing is going to be getting more powerful over the next couple of days and you think I should spend my time with other people, do you… I mean I know it's a terrible imposition, but do you think I might spend some of that time with you? Since you know what's going on and all."</p>
<p>Mycroft looked Greg over, and a slight smile touched his lips. Already there seemed to be something between them, more than just the relationship between a magician and his client. This was significant. The only remaining question was whether Sherlock would make some kind of a demand for Mycroft's heart. He would have to act with utmost caution in hopes of breaking both curses, rather than one or both of them dying.</p>
<p>"You've no one else to spend time with."</p>
<p>Greg sighed. "No. Nobody."</p>
<p>Mycroft nodded. "Very well. I have a brief appointment an hour from now, but it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Go, get yourself clothing for the weekend, and return after ten o'clock tonight. You should, however, be warned that I will be working on your situation throughout most of the night. Given that you'll be here, I shall require your assistance so that you'll not be unintentionally endangered during the necessary operation at midnight."</p>
<p>Greg gave Mycroft a confused look. "At midnight? What are you doing at midnight?"</p>
<p>"Summoning a daemon," Mycroft said.</p>
<p>Stunned, Greg said, "Daemons. Right, then. I'll see you a little after ten."</p>
<p>After Greg left, Mycroft consulted his final client for the day and sent him on his way.</p>
<p>Mycroft would have no dinner that night. After the cup of tea he'd had with Greg, he had to fast to prepare for his night's work. Instead, he went upstairs to his workshop to lay out the proper circle for the operation. He did the pre-inscriptions of circle and triangle, leaving only the final glyphs and sigils for the midnight working. Offerings, tools, and his grimoire were laid out. He assembled the appropriate robes for the ritual. </p>
<p>If Greg was going to be here, he would be vulnerable, and therefore Mycroft would have to have him within the protective circle to keep him safe from harm. He sighed and scribed a small green X on the floor near the table. The man could stand there and hold the grimoire for him. It would be the safest thing for both of them. He laid out the things that Greg would need, as well.</p>
<p>When Greg arrived, he showed him around his shop and the flat, taking him upstairs to the guest room, where Mycroft himself had lived for so many years. Greg reached out to take Mycroft's arm, thanking him, and Mycroft had to struggle not to reveal how much that simple touch affected him. He told Greg to make himself at home and that they would meet at eleven for the final preparations, then he left him to do the last of his preliminary incantations for the rite.</p>
<p>Once they were ready in the workshop, Mycroft gave Greg instructions for what he had to do. Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. "Your primary task is to remain within the circle with me, where you'll be safe. You will, essentially, be my bookstand."</p>
<p>"Your bookstand." Greg looked uncertain and vaguely disappointed.</p>
<p>"Yes, I know. It's beneath your dignity. So's being rent asunder by a disgruntled daemon. You shall hold my book for me, and say absolutely nothing, no matter how tempted you are to do so. Your silence will protect you. Believe me, the daemon in question will attempt to get you to speak. Nothing whatsoever that you say will be of any assistance to either of us; it may actively endanger both of us. You must give no information to the daemon. You must not respond to anything it says to you. You must say <i>nothing whatsoever</i>.  Once the operation is over, you must say nothing at all about the operation until I tell you that you may. Am I clear?"</p>
<p>"Crystal," Greg said, visibly shaken by the whole idea.</p>
<p>"Once we are within the circle and the rite is begun, you must remain within the circle, so stand where I put you and do not move. If you break the circle, again, you endanger both of us."</p>
<p>"Got it. Play waxworks statue."</p>
<p>"Just so." Mycroft squeezed Greg's shoulder and let go. He explained the details of the operation to Greg, who had never witnessed a conjuration before, and the man became more solemn and silent as Mycroft spoke. He handed Greg the grimoire and pointed out his place within the circle, then began the conjuration of the triangle of manifestation. </p>
<p>Workings like this took a great deal of focus and energy, and Mycroft knew that in this working, two lives were on the line. Once he stepped into the circle, he traced Sherlock's daemonic signature on the grimoire's page to fix the intent of the operation. He drew the sigils and uttered the barbarous words of evocation, staking out his protected space and calling upon the treacherous entity who would serve them this night.</p>
<p>Greg was obviously uneasy and becoming more so as the operation continued, but he remained in place and silent, much to Mycroft's relief. When Sherlock's jaguar form began to manifest within the triangle, smokey and ethereal, Mycroft stood guard with his sword at the ready. He could not allow his attention to waver, so he had to trust that Greg would do as he'd been told.</p>
<p>The daemon Sherlock was a three-headed jaguar with golden eyes; a minor Lieutenant in the ranks of Hell, the grimoires said. When it pleases him, he will become a comely young man with raven hair and piercing eyes, and he has the power to discover secrets and to bring to the petitioner objects that have been hidden or cursed. Mycroft had called upon him numerous times over the years, always knowing that he was both clever and immensely dangerous. His mood was changeable and often spiteful, and he was known to lay traps for the unwary. Only the most skilled of magicians would dare to summon him. A lapse in attention as he manifested could be fatal.</p>
<p>"Hello, Mycroft," the daemon sneered, its voice a low rumble.</p>
<p>"Sherlock. I've a task for you."</p>
<p>Sherlock's eyes raked over both of them. "Oh, Mycroft. You've acquired a pet. How quaint." Mycroft refused to be distracted, and demanded the service for which he'd summoned the daemon, in precise, specific language. One could never be too careful in wording these requests, for in the slipperiness of language lay chasms in which the petitioner could be trapped.</p>
<p>"I have a price," Sherlock snarled, eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>"Name the price to be paid once the curse is lifted, and I shall consider it." Mycroft's voice was low and threatening. His body was tense as he kept tight control over the situation and the daemon. This was it. This was the moment in which Mycroft would know the truth. He would live or die upon Sherlock's next words.</p>
<p>"In return for the service you require, I demand to see you hand your new pet your still-beating heart."</p>
<p>Greg, shocked, opened his mouth to object, but Mycroft covered it with his empty hand and glared at him, needing him to keep silent. "I agree to your price," Mycroft said, quickly and without hesitation, before Sherlock could elaborate. These words he could work with. This phrasing would be the salvation of both of them. His pulse thundering, Mycroft sealed their agreement. "When the curse is lifted you shall see me hand my still-beating heart to this man."</p>
<p>Sherlock, believing he'd won, gloated until Mycroft banished him with the ritual demand that he depart to do his work and bring no harm to the house and those within. Finally, Mycroft turned to Greg. "You must say <i>nothing</i> of the operation. I know you object to my having accepted the daemon's terms, but <i>you must trust me</i>. I know precisely what I am doing. I have dealt with this daemon many times before. Do you agree to remain silent, as I told you before this began?"</p>
<p>Greg, still shocked, hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Mycroft relaxed slightly and withdrew his hand from Greg's mouth. He turned his attention to the formal banishments and to opening the circle and triangle before he took the book from Greg's hands.</p>
<p>To distract the man from his deep distress, Mycroft asked his assistance in cleaning up after the operation. Despite Greg's shock, he followed Mycroft's instructions precisely, doing as he was told, and repeating the words he was taught. Once they finished and changed back into ordinary clothes, Mycroft took him by the elbow and led him down to the kitchen, easing the poor, devastated man into a chair. </p>
<p>He prepared tea then crouched next to Greg's chair and laid a hand on one arm. "Trust me," he whispered, his voice gentle. "Don't despair. I won't let any harm come to you."</p>
<p>"I-it's not me I'm worried for." Greg's voice shook.</p>
<p>Mycroft put his arms around Greg and held him as the tea steeped. "You need to have some tea and a little something to eat. It'll stabilize you a bit. And then you should get some sleep."</p>
<p>"I don't think I can." Greg didn't let go, clinging to Mycroft.</p>
<p>Mycroft wished he could explain what was happening, but the curse was not yet broken. There was no word of comfort that he could utter. He offered Greg a sleeping philtre, but it was refused. Greg was restless and once he'd had the tea and biscuits that Mycroft had offered him, he refused to stray more than a few steps from Mycroft. The emotional distress Greg suffered was written on his face and in his posture, radiating from him like the heat from a bonfire.</p>
<p>Finally, knowing Greg would be unable to sleep, he invited the man into his own room, to rest with him there. Greg nodded and followed him. Mycroft lay back on his bed, propped up on pillows, and opened his arms to him. Greg sat with him, then leaned back into Mycroft's arms, shedding silent tears. He covered Mycroft's arms with his own, clinging. Mycroft could do nothing more than hold him.</p>
<p>He'd never had anyone express such emotion for him before. No one had ever wept for him or feared for him like this. Mycroft knew he was in love. He'd felt it before, but it had never once been returned. He had lived a life of bitter rejection and had eventually resigned himself to never being loved. He wanted Greg. He didn't just want to help him, he wanted him to be happy. He wanted him to be <i>here</i>. He could see that Greg cared for him; he certainly wouldn't be weeping and slowly fading into sleep in Mycroft's arms if he didn't. Sherlock had demanded he give his heart to Greg. Mycroft could find no reason that he should not. Both of them had been cursed to live without love, and both were desperate to find it.</p>
<p>Greg fulfilled every condition of the key to breaking Mycroft's curse. He had seen and recognized the attraction in the other man's eyes. Surely they could find release and companionship in each other once the curses were broken, once Mycroft could finally explain the circumstances of his life, and his loneliness. As much as Greg had clung to him, he had been clinging as well.</p>
<p>Mycroft sat for a long time before sleep took him, his face buried in the warmth of Greg's greying hair.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The next day was Saturday, and Greg remained with Mycroft throughout the day, his misery and fear displayed openly on his handsome face. The atmosphere was heavy and stressed, and Greg at one point begged Mycroft not to go through with the ritual.</p>
<p>"Hush. Trust me. Say nothing," Mycroft told him. </p>
<p>Greg took himself up to the guest room, but Mycroft was concerned about his growing anguish. Not that long after, he went upstairs to seek him out and found that he'd been crying. "You are not to harm yourself," he said. "I shall not accept it. Not at all. That is <i>not</i> how this is meant to go. <i>Trust me</i>." Mycroft took his hand then and didn't let Greg leave his side for the rest of the day. He feared that if Greg strayed from him, he might end his own life, and the thought horrified Mycroft.</p>
<p>They worked the summoning again together, as it had been done the night before, with Greg's distress increasing as the rite carried on. Sherlock manifested and gave them the name of Matthew Twillson. </p>
<p>Mycroft nodded. "That task is done. I charge you now to give to me the evidence I require and the means to break this curse."</p>
<p>Sherlock grinned a razor-toothed grin and gestured, a bottle floating in the air between his hands. Something writhed within it. "I've both objects in one," he said. "Less work for the same <i>delicious</i> reward."</p>
<p>"A witch bottle," Mycroft said. "And it appears to contain some sort of homunculus." Of course. A living object that would grow with the power of the curse. He inscribed the design of transference on the table within the circle and took the witch bottle from Sherlock's hands. He set down his sword and took up the bottle examining it closely. It vibrated with the evil it contained, making Mycroft's fingers tingle where they touched the container. Greg's name was written on the outside in blood. </p>
<p>He took off his scrying ring and examined the bottle, the homunculus, and the knotted binding, like sinew, around it. His investigation took several minutes and he could feel Greg shifting uneasily beside him. Mycroft would have to remove the knots without cutting them in order to open the bottle and kill the homunculus, which had been the source of Greg's depression, and the powering agent of the curse. It had been growing in power as it fed on Greg's positive emotions, his depression its waste. It was a very tidy, extremely skilled use of the bottle.</p>
<p>Knowing now what needed to be done, Mycroft began chanting an unbinding spell, and one end of the cord began to glow. This would show Mycroft the way to loose the knots. It was slow and painstaking work that took nearly an hour, with the creature in the bottle pulsing and writhing more and more energetically as Mycroft unravelled the binding spell. He'd have to be quick or the thing inside would kill Greg before the curse could be broken. There would be only a moment in which he could stun the thing with a word of power so that he could impale it with his silver dagger.</p>
<p>Finally, the last knot undone, he lay the cord and the bottle on the table and picked up his dagger. He took a deep breath and held it against the stench that would erupt when he broke the seal, then pried the lid off. With a gesture and a shout, he stunned the thing and stabbed, and it exploded within the bottle, snapping the curse that had been laid upon Greg. "It is done!" Mycroft shouted, triumph in his voice.</p>
<p>Now came the tricky part. He would have to ask Greg to receive his heart, and Greg would have to accept, for Mycroft's curse to be broken. The act would bind them together and he could only hope that the man would not wish to break the binding after both curses were undone, and the daemon banished.</p>
<p>Sherlock laughed. Mycroft turned to him. "You have done as you were bidden. I shall now pay the price as agreed."</p>
<p>He set the dagger on the table. Mycroft took the book from Greg's hands and lay it on the table as well. He stepped close and took Greg's hand, resting Greg's palm over his heart. Nearly nose to nose, he held Greg's face between both of his own hands. Mycroft silently begged Greg to trust him, despite the terror on the man's face.</p>
<p>"Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft said, "I hand to you my still beating heart. Do you accept this gift?" Do it, he thought frantically, please for the love of all that is sacred, accept it.</p>
<p>Stunned, Greg nodded. "Yes," he choked, his voice rough and shattered. "Yes, I accept the gift." The acceptance broke Mycroft's own curse and he pressed his mouth to Greg's, kissing him fiercely. Greg's fingers knotted in the richly embroidered tabard over Mycroft's white ritual robe. Their kiss sealed them together, heart to heart, inseparable.</p>
<p>Sherlock screamed. "That is <i>not</i> the price I asked! I've been cheated!"</p>
<p>Breathless, Mycroft lifted his mouth from Greg's and looked over at the shrieking daemon. "But it is," he said. "You asked that I hand him my still beating heart; I have done so. You at no point specified that I must sever it, bleeding, from my chest."</p>
<p>"I demand justice for this breach of contract!"</p>
<p>Mycroft smiled a tight, vicious smile, knowing how close the operation had come to failure. "Never forget, Sherlock -- I'm the smart one. You'll get no satisfaction from any aetherial court, for you'd have twisted another's words in just such a way yourself."</p>
<p>"I shall see you in Tartarus," Sherlock snarled.</p>
<p>Mycroft didn't care. Sherlock wailed and argued as Mycroft put the lid back on the bottle. Handing the grimoire back to Greg, he banished the daemon. He wove protections about himself and Greg, to shield them from Sherlock's wrath. It would be quite some time before Mycroft attempted to summon him again. Sherlock would not forget this incident, and would be even more keen to seek Mycroft's destruction from this moment forward.</p>
<p>Greg stood next to him, trembling violently as Mycroft carefully took the grimoire from his hands and set it down. Greg sank into the chair at Mycroft's desk, his face pale with shock. </p>
<p>He looked up at Mycroft. "Why?" he asked. "Why would you do this for me? Why would you bind us together like that?"</p>
<p>Mycroft went to him and brought him to his feet, taking Greg in his arms. "When I heard your tale and I saw your true nature through the circle of the ring, I knew that you were the one I'd been waiting for, all my life. As a child, I'd been marked by a curse of my own, and you -- you were the key to its breaking. I would have explained if I could, but it is the nature of some curses that they cannot be described. Mine was one."</p>
<p>"That's… that's why you wouldn't take your fee."</p>
<p>Mycroft nodded. "There was an element of fate in this, Greg. To break my own curse, I had to break yours, and our lives would be twined together from that moment forward."</p>
<p>"So when I asked to stay…"</p>
<p>"I already knew that you would." He kissed Greg again, gently this time, then turned to the table and picked up the bottle, which Greg took from him. With that and the information Sherlock had given them, there was ample evidence for Greg to prosecute William Twillson for magical mayhem and attempted murder. </p>
<p>"Look, I don't know about you, but I'm shattered. I barely slept last night. When we've cleaned up here, could we…" Greg hesitated.</p>
<p>"Yes," Mycroft said, smiling. "Of course we can. We both require rest, and tomorrow is a new day." He offered his hand to Greg and pulled him to his feet, wrapping him in his arms. "Please," he said, "stay the night in my bed. Sleep with me."</p>
<p>"This… it's the first time in fifteen years anyone's wanted me in their arms for a second night," Greg whispered.</p>
<p>Mycroft nodded. "I was only fourteen when I was cursed. I've not had a second night with anyone in all those years. That we should share a bed tonight--"</p>
<p>"Yes," Greg said. "Please. Please, Mycroft."</p>
<p>They put Mycroft's workshop in order, then disrobed and cleaned themselves of the stench of the homunculus, and the stress of the operation itself. Hand in hand, they went to Mycroft's room and Mycroft pulled back the covers, inviting Greg into the bed with him. Greg followed, eager.</p>
<p>Both were exhausted, wearing only pyjama bottoms. They curled into one another's arms, holding each other, exchanging soft, and tentative kisses. They talked, half asleep, for a long time, until dawn began to colour the sky. Mycroft told Greg about the curse that had been laid upon him, and how he'd spent his life alone. Greg spoke of his own misfortunes, and his deepening depression, which had finally been eased when the curse was broken. They held each other in the darkness, two wounded and lonely men, finally released from their years of pain.</p>
<p>Sleep found them shortly after dawn and they woke slowly on Sunday, late in the morning, their limbs still tangled. "You're still here," Mycroft whispered, hardly able to believe his good fortune. </p>
<p>Greg smiled. "So are you."</p>
<p>"What do you want from this?" Mycroft asked. "Do you still want this? It was rather sprung on you last night under great duress."</p>
<p>Greg looked into his eyes, then kissed him. "You gave me your heart," he said. "I think I'd like to keep it for a while, if that's okay." His smile broadened into a sunny grin.</p>
<p>Carefully, Mycroft returned the kiss, savoring the affection in it. It was softer and warmer than any kiss he'd had before. "The daemon said I had to give you my heart, not that you were required to keep it," he said, hesitant. "Our curses are broken. If you wished, our bond could be severed without ill effect."</p>
<p>"No." Greg shook his head. "I really do want to try this with you. You're the first person in years who's actually wanted to stay. You… you held me the night before the curse was broken and still wanted me the next day. I think there was something there, even before you broke the curse."</p>
<p>Mycroft caressed Greg's stubbled cheek. "I felt, perhaps, you had looked upon me with some attraction before all this as well. Not with love, but with interest. With desire."</p>
<p>"Yeah. Never imagined I'd have a chance." He lowered his eyes and pulled Mycroft closer to him, nuzzling his face into Mycroft's palm. "Tell me you want this, too. Please. Tell me you're willing to try."</p>
<p>"I am," Mycroft assured him, his voice shaking with emotion. "Despite myself, I felt such hope when I saw who you truly were. I don't think I could bear to let you go without giving this a chance."</p>
<p>Greg rolled them so that he lay atop Mycroft and kissed him, his hands moving on Mycroft's bare skin. Mycroft surrendered to sensation, letting his hands skim up the warmth of Greg's back as he opened his mouth to the kisses. Greg moved again and Mycroft opened his legs to let Greg settle between them, warm and solid and moving gently against his body.</p>
<p>The physical contact felt wonderful but Mycroft's heart was aching with emotion as they rocked together, kissing. "Want more of your skin," Greg panted, one hand moving down and tugging at Mycroft's pyjamas. "Please." They separated briefly, as much as they could bear, and both of them wriggled out of what they were wearing until they were completely naked together and settled again, Mycroft on his back and Greg lying between his thighs.</p>
<p>"I'm not too heavy, am I?" Greg asked, kissing Mycroft again.</p>
<p>"Mmmm, no, you're perfect," Mycroft murmured into Greg's mouth. "I can't imagine anything more perfect." He slid his hands down Greg's back to cup his buttocks and pulled him closer, their stiffening cocks rubbing against each other deliciously. He moaned softly as Greg pressed him down into the bed, and wrapped a leg over Greg's hip.</p>
<p>It felt exquisite. The rough friction of the hair on their chests as they moved peaked Mycroft's nipples and Greg sucked Mycroft's lower lip, nibbling gently. Mycroft thought his heart would burst, the emotions like a bruise within him, tender and aching as their rough breath mingled. "Want you, so much," Greg breathed, dipping into the kiss and sucking on Mycroft's tongue.</p>
<p>To be wanted, to be desired -- it made everything more intense, and Mycroft shook with it, rocking up against Greg's body, wanting to occupy the same space, wanting their atoms to meld together, inseparable. There was no rejection here, no reluctance, no hurry to get things over with and leave, only need and some oceanic depth that was impossible to fathom, and Mycroft was drowning in it. "Don't go, don't go when this is done," Mycroft begged, clinging to Greg with everything in him. His eyes burned with tears he feared to shed. There had been so many years of emptiness and he was terrified of its return.</p>
<p>Greg silenced him with a fierce kiss and deeper, slicker thrusts against Mycroft's body as both of them sweated, their cocks hard and leaking with the intensity of their mutual arousal. "Not gonna let you go," Greg gasped, between kisses. "You're mine now. Don't want you to go."</p>
<p>Mycroft shivered, the tears finally coming when he realized that Greg felt the same fear of being left, of not being loved. He wasn't the only one who had been so profoundly alone, yet now on the cusp of something new and frighteningly intimate. He wasn't the only one who needed so desperately to love and be loved. It struck Mycroft to the heart, profound and ecstatic, and he shuddered with it, the physical orgasm only a shadow of the emotions he felt. </p>
<p>He cried out and Greg held him, grinding against him as the space between their bodies grew slick with Mycroft's release. The sounds Greg made as he hurtled toward his own peak were like a physical blow, aching in Mycroft's chest, and he held Greg through it, whispering words of love and reassurance. "I want you," he said, "I need you. I'm not going away."</p>
<p>After, they lay together, silent and trembling. Mycroft felt there was nothing he could say that could be more clear than what they had just experienced together. He trailed his fingertips over Greg's stubbled cheek, and his soft, wet lips. Greg's brown eyes gazed into his own, glittering in the late morning light coming through the window. When Greg leaned in to kiss the tears from Mycroft's face, it was a revelation. Greg's fingers trailed through Mycroft's thinning hair.</p>
<p>"You're a miracle," Greg whispered.</p>
<p>"We have so much to learn about each other," Mycroft said, "so much to learn about being together. I know nothing of love."</p>
<p>Greg nuzzled Mycroft, his blunt nose caressing Mycroft's longer, pointed one. "We'll learn together," he said, their bodies tangled together, sated. "We've all the time in the world."</p>
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